Scenario
by Masako Moonshade
Summary: Prompt Eleven- Snapshot: Several short images of what could be.
1. Prompt One: Tea

Disclaimer: If I owned Avatar, I wouldn't have done that to Jet. In fact, many of you know what I would have done, because you've read Worth Fighting For, haven't you?

AN: No, I'm not dead. Sick with some kind of flu, (likely caused by nerves) which is why I actually have the time to type this out. Once again, I've got to transfer every last letter from my laptop, so it's slow going. I thank you all for waiting for my updates.

AN2: The scoop on this: Once upon a time, in early October, my friend Kya and I were at a dance and discussing Avatar, and she mentiones something that made me think FANFICTION. But I wasn't sure how exactly I wanted to execute it. So I wrote several, based off the same scenario. Thus the name. No two chapters are interconnected. In fact, they are several different ways that the same scenario could have played out. The first set (I hope that I'll have more prompts like this) is based on the Tea Shop.

AN3: Sorry about the mixup. This is the real first scenario. Please forgive me.

* * *

.Scenario.

"I hear they have the best tea in Ba Sing Sei at this shop," Sokka said, leading his friends through the crowded streets, ignoring the Dai Lee informants that glanced their way.

"That's not saying much," Toph said with a shrug. "The tea around here isn't exactly first rate."

"We all know you've had better," Katara pointed out lightly, "But the locals can't really afford to be as refined as you used to be back home."

"That's not what I was talking about," the blind girl said quietly, and if her friends heard, they didn't understand. They hadn't met the old man—not really—and there was no way they could have known, so she let it drop.

Not wanting to spite Sokka's efforts, she followed along, ready at least to give the shop a try. They stepped inside, nearly diving into a pool of conversation and clinking teacups and slurps and sips and sighs and aromas that made her mouth water and summoned an odd familiarity because it couldn't, couldn't be.

Toph immediately decided that she liked this shop.

In one corner, she sensed a pleasant weight, the cheerful, bouncy girth kept only by those who enjoyed eating and sharing their food with everyone they could find. But it wasn't until she heard the voice that she trotted to the front of the shop, cutting her way through the crowd, and nearly climbed onto the front counter to listen more closely as he spoke. She could hear a smile in his voice.

"Toph," Iroh said. "What a wonderful surprise to see you here!"


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Still own diddly.

AN: ...I'm sorry. I posted the wrong document. This and the other are _seperate_ entries. Which is probably why you've been so confused lately. Please forgive me.

* * *

Katara approached the counter to make their order, waiting for the young man to turn from the teapot to address her.

"Can I help you?" he said, distracted and not quite willing to be there.

She stared.

He took a good look at her and then stared back.

"You," he whispered, the word vanishing at the edge of his breath. Surprise reflected even in that jagged scar that surrounded his eye. Katara was too shocked to react. What was she supposed to do? Run? Call for help? (A water whip to the face could prove effective, she recalled.)

Instead she spoke:

"What are you doing here?" her voice held a steely edge, a reminder to him of their last fight.

"I could ask you the same thing," he said, his own tone ambiguous and even.

"I'm not letting you get your hands on Aang," she hissed quickly. He jerked slightly at the name, some unnamed force flickering behind his gold eyes, but the moment passed, and he shrugged it off.

"I didn't ask about him," he said at last.

"I'm warning you, Zuko." She felt the slightest pause.

"It's Lee now," he corrected. "Did you want something to drink?"

She shook her head and walked away from her old enemy, not sure whether to feel relieved or sad.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I now own Squat as well as Diddly. Aren't you proud of me?

AN: I'd like to remind my readers that these are all seperate responses to the same prompt. Meaning that if this happened, the first two didn't, etc. Just thought I'd remind you before we get too confused. I'd also like to note that these three in particular were written before the new episode was aired, so please don't lynch me. And... Well, enjoy!

AN2: ...Wow. Now you know how bad my spelling can really be. Thanks to **Rashaka** for pointing out that I forgot to edit this...It's been fixed, so you can all breathe easily and stop scraping your eyes out.

* * *

Katara felt her blood freeze in her veins when _that scar_ flashed into existence in the corner of her eye. She didn't dare tell Sokka or Aang or Toph. It could have been anyone—such scars couldn't possibly be one of a kind. But she did memorize the name of the shop, and the next evening she came back. It was late, just as the shop was closing. And she was alone, of course, so she wouldn't need to worry about him capturing Aang or hurting Sokka or Toph if she failed.

He saw her, and in a moment of surprise, instinct overtook logic. The tea he had been serving was cast aside, and he moved as though to strike her. She parried the blow, freezing the scalding tea as it fell, sending droplets like needles to drive him away. Oddly enough, it worked.

"Don't fight me," he muttered so only she could hear. "Not here." She didn't recognize his tone, but she was all too familiar with his commands. To abandon Aang her values, her loyalties. Katara had had more than enough of Zuko's orders.

She struck again.

"Stop this!" the old man cried—the one who had fallen to Azula's treachery those long weeks ago. Katara felt a flicker of relief in the back of her mind, but her warrior's training kept her going. Almost mechanically, one stance followed another, and the fight against her enemy continued. Because she couldn't quit. Not now, when Aang was still so close to despair. Strangled by the Dai Lee, separated from his oldest and dearest friend, crushed in a city of secrets, she somehow doubted that the Avatar could survive the dark finality of capture.

"I want you to stay away from Aang," she snapped, her eyes alight with cold desperation. Another blow punctuated the demand. "I want you to leave him alone and never, _ever_, try to hurt him, or chase him, or lock him up again. Do you understand me?"

"_Yes_." The clarity of that single word struck her harder than any attack could have.

"Swear it," she said, still cautious. She was stonily aware that agents of the Dai Lee were approaching, saying something about disturbing the peace. "Swear it!" she repeated when they grabbed her arms and began to march her away.

"I promise," Zuko called. He jogged a few yards after her. "_On my honor_!"

Katara knew she was being arrested, but suddenly she didn't quite care. She knew how corrupt the Dai Lee had become, she wondered if she would ever see the sun or moon again, but the matter didn't concern her as much as she thought it should.

_On my honor. _

He had told her once that he had lost his honor. But it had been reclaimed, or reforged; because no matter how dire her own straits seemed, how uncertain of her own future she had become, she had a perfect knowledge of one thing.

Aang would be forever safe from Zuko. 


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I've added another piece to the list of things I own! It's now Diddly, Squat, and Zip! Aren't you proud of me? Maybe someday I'll publish something for real and add that to it. And then pigs shall grow wings and tutus.

AN: Hah. This is to my friend Kya and all you other Sokka lovers--you know who you are.

* * *

It hadn't taken long for Sokka to notice the teashop, and it hadn't taken more than a second glance to prove that the other man, the one serving him jasmine tea, was Prince Zuko.

All in all, there was a fantastic satisfaction in being waited on by the guy who had made their past year miserable. Of course, Zuko recognized him quickly enough, but while Sokka was ready for a fight, the Firebender apparently wasn't, and he resigned himself to continue serving tea with a particularly withering scowl on his face. Just for the glory of it all, Sokka paid swift vengeance on his old adversary—mostly in the form of friendly complaints.

"This tea is too cold."

"Too sweet."

"I don't like this flavor. Get me another."

There were dozens more; each was mended with that trademark grimace. On occasion the ex-prince refused, at which point he was scolded by the fat (and not dead, Sokka noted with relief) old man who apparently was his uncle. Then again, his 'uncle' called the prince Lee, so Sokka didn't put too much merit in what he said.

Sokka noticed other things besides Zuko, of course. One of them happened to be Jin—a nice looking girl who spent an unholy amount of time in a teashop. And an uneven holier amount staring at Zuko. And as reluctant as Sokka was to believe it, it was nauseatingly obvious that this poor girl was suffering from an emotional pain in the worst degree: a crush.

On Zuko.

IT was enough to make the warrior want to retch…or perhaps laugh. He couldn't be sure. But, being the nice guy that he was, he decided to help. By, of course, giving her a new object to her affection.

The next day he sat down at a table close to hers and began to make small talk—nothing too big or obvious, just a taste of that natural flamboyance that had attracted Suki, Yue, and that bendy girl that hung out with Azula (as well as a room full of Haiku writing young beauties, but that was besides the point).

And Jin, being the poor, disturbed girl that she was (probably feverish, too, and Sokka would need to find a way to get her away from Zuko before she could be completely corrupted) didn't even bat an eye.

His first mistake was to take out his frustration on Zuko with his traditional comments.

The second was to ask her out immediately after.

The third blunder came in the form of a less than tactful phrase—"I don't know what you could see in old scarface."

In hindsight, he could think of at least twenty good ways to avoid getting that slap across the face. But, deciding to play it safe, he decided not to come back to the teashop for a while.


	5. Prompt Two: Sue

Disclaimer: Still own nothing.

AN: This one is also dedicated to Kya, who gave me another prompt, this one regarding Mary Sues. If you find it at all interesting, I'll be posting the rest on my LiveJournal: ( masakomoonshade. livejournal. com /1380. html#cutid1 ) as I write it. Is this bashing anyone in particular? No. It's actually running off the same train of thought as Commentary, but not quite. Please, leave a review. I need to know if this is any good or not.

* * *

Mar was the youngest daughter of the Ysue family. Coincidentally, she was also the only survivor. Truth be told, she wasn't more upset than is usual for such a loss—parent's idiotic choice of names had left her to face a rather irritating amount of ridicule in her younger years. 

Not that she was bitter. In fact, the recent, graphic extinction of her family had left her conveniently independent and solitary, and despite the legal and sociological practices of the day, nobody said a word about the fact that she owned property and held a regular job. But, though her bizarre and unexcused circumstances were profitable, they were also unnerving.

"Wait," she said to a guard of a local official as he passed by her house. "I own a _house_. I'm unmarried, fifteen years old, and haven't received any education besides the bare basics expected of women. And I don't even live in an apartment, either. But an entire house. Doesn't' that strike you as a little bit odd?" The guard thought so, too, but was somehow frightfully unmotivated to do anything about it. This left Mar with a slight moral dilemma: should she complain to the local authorities about the incompetence of their soldiers, or should she shut up? One option risked being robbed, but the other would likely leave her displaced and impoverished (unless got married, and she was too unnerved by the local matchmaker to try that option just yet) like all the other women of her time.

After a short debate, she decided that it was bad luck to second-guess one's fortune, so she bought a second lock for her door and left it at that. It was a decision that she would learn to sincerely regret.

After work one night, she carefully worked through both locks and stepped into her house, expecting to get a long night's sleep before returning to work again the next morning. What she didn't expect was to see another girl, about her age, scrawling something into a tablet of unnaturally white paper with what she could only assume was some kind of bizarre pen.

_I knew I should have gotten that third lock_, Mar thought numbly.

"I'm calling the guards," she announced, fumbling for the doorknob behind her. The stranger's brow furrowed.

"That won't work," she muttered. "You can't just be some damsel in distress. That's just too big a cliché. You need to be active. Aggressive…" Still talking to herself, the girl knelt down beside a massive trunk (one that had not been there a few seconds before, Mar was positive…) and began rummaging through it, tossing random weapons onto the floor. "…No…not that one…not pretty enough…that's too clumsy…" at this the stranger tossed an ax over her shoulder. Mar had seen enough, and was currently fumbling with the locks, hoping to escape the clutches of this madwoman. The madwoman glanced over her shoulder in irritation.

"Quit that," she snapped, and picked up her tablet of paper, scribbling something into it. As Mar struggled with the door, planks of wood melted into existence, nailing themselves into the doorframe, sealing it against her struggles. "I still need to get you a weapon…Here's one!" She pulled a slender, ornate sword from the trunk, much to Mar's confusion. The blade was ridiculously long, and there was no way it could ever have fit inside the trunk. But apparently, this didn't bother the stranger. "Okay. You're going to use this." She forced the weapon into Mar's hand, who desperately started hacking at the wooden planks on her door. Meanwhile, the girl returned to he tablet. "Okay…now, you're an expert Swordfighter… and you were trained by…um…let's make it Zhao…" Mar had no idea who this Zhao person was, and she honestly didn't care. "…Your parents already died in a fire…and you just found out…from a lover in the Fire Nation's army…that Zhao has become jealous of your skills and wants you dead…"

"What?" Mar demanded, finally turning around to face the mad woman. "Why does he want to kill me? What's going on? Who are you?"

"…So you take your bag of endless storage, packed full of supplies, and you prepare to run away." Mar suddenly found herself tipping backwards under the weight of an oddly shaped bag, it's straps fastened around her shoulders as though it intended to pop off her arms. She fell to the ground with an almighty "Oof!" and stared pathetically up at the source of all this trauma, who looked rather pleased, despite some annoyance that Mar was on the ground. "Now you've got to flee from your home and job and find the Avatar so he can save you from Zhao's clutches…no…Zhao's wrath. That sounds even better…"

"But I don't want to leave home," Mar said, though she noticed with some relief and astonishment that the planks of wood that had barred her escape had disappeared, as well as both her locks.

"But you have to, Mary Sue," the other girl said. "Your life depends on it." Mar's eyes brightened with some semblance of hope.

"That's not my name," she cried. "You've got the wrong person! My name's Mar! Ysue Mar!"  
"Really?" the madwoman said, rifling through the tablet again. "Huh. Looks like a typo…"

"See? It's not me! You're after someone else, so please leave me alone—"

"No, I've got the right girl. Emerald eyes, sometimes red, black, purple, or white, depending on your mood. Cropped raven hair, perfect complexion with a birthmark on your neck that's shaped like a pair of wings. Yep. That's you."

"No, it's not!" Mar shouted.

"See for yourself." The girl pulled out a mirror from the trunk, and Mar's cry turned to a scream. Her previously long brown hair had turned jet black, and hung obscenely short around her ears. Her eyes, once normally colored, now flashed alarmingly between red and white. Meanwhile, ignorant of her despair, the stranger kept talking. "…I have to say, I like Mar Ysue a lot better. It sounds more Asian."

"What have you done to me?" she wailed, forcing herself to look away from the travesty that was her face.

"I made you better," the girl said, sounding rather irritated. "Now you're an original."

"I'm a _freak_!" The girl nodded sagely.

"That's what the local kids said, too. So you were motivated to defend yourself by learning airbending, firebending, and waterbending."

"I can't do that! I'm not the Avatar!" Mar cried.

"But the darkness and loneliness in your heart festered, so you became a shadowbender, too, and a loving relationship with a handsome prince redeemed your soul, so you learned lightbending. But he died trying to save you from some horrible…I'll work on that part…so you retreated to yourself, and learned to talk to animals, and now you can summon them to help you whenever you need them."

"No! None of that ever happened! It's not true, just leave me alone!"

"Don't worry," the other girl said with a confident grin. "I've saved your ultimate power for later."

"But—"

"Now you are going to run into the forest and look for the Avatar before Zhoa kills you."

"I thought you said his name was Zhao…"

"Typo. Now go!" she scribbled something else into the tablet, and Mar found herself picking up the sword against her will and running out of the city. She shouted for someone, anyone to help her, but nobody heard. It was as though they had been waiting for this for a long time.


	6. Prompt Three: Precious

Disclaimer: I wish so badly that I owned Avatar. Maybe for Christmas...? The lyrics are from the Prince of Egypt, which I also do not own. Again, maybe Santa will be generous this year...?

AN: This is a Christmas present to every one of you. I apologize for not writing much lately, and I'll spare you sob stories and excuses. This is for you, and I ask that you forgive the disjointed nature of it. It's completely intentional.

* * *

**Precious**

_River, O River, flow gently for me,_

_Such precious cargo you bear—_

_Do you know somewhere, he can live free?_

_River, deliver him there..._

The popular belief was that she was a widow, and had left her home—if such a place still existed—to escape the hardships that had robbed her of her family.

The woman had been worn by the passing years, and those who had once known her would never have recognized her. She passed her time in hard work, speaking to many people, but never about herself. But they liked her well enough, and she didn't seem at all sinister, so no inquiries were made.

The popular belief was that he was a traveling warrior—perhaps a deserter from the army.

He wore swords at his his side and his clothes were worn and ragged and a single, cruel scar disfigured the side of his face. He collapsed at the edge of town, likely from hunger or thirst, and his ostrich-horse was in equally dire straits. They gathered around his prone body, wondering what to do with him. Was he dangerous? Was he a thief? What business did they have helping a cowardly deserter?

It was she who stepped forward, telling the others to bring him to her home. She would take responsibility for him. All would be well. They trusted her, so they obeyed. They were used to getting no answers from her, so they didn't ask why she was crying.

He woke up feeling warm and safe. A damp cloth had been laid over his eyes, soothing away an infantile headache, and easing the subtle ache of his scar. A gentle hand lifted his head, and another spooned water into his dry mouth.

Perhaps it was raining—cool droplets of water touched his hands and cheeks on occasion, but these were wiped dry with a tender touch.

"Something...smells good..." he rasped. His mouth was watering at the scent, and his mind flooded with the memory of warm meals of a time long since passed. For a moment, the comforting warmth of the stranger left him, but a moment later it returned, pressing a hot roll into his hand. His hunger allowed no hesitation, and he devoured it without reserve, pausing only to savor the taste of the food. Another roll, and another were given to him, and for the first time in weeks he ate his fill. More water quenched his thirst, and his head was laid in the stranger's lap as she hummed him a lullaby.

His dreams were sweet that night.

The next morning a broad breakfast was steaming beside his bed, the ostrich-horse was readied and fed, and a pack was filled with food and supplies, but he slept, still cradled in the gentle comfort that had eluded him since his youth. Only his host was missing, and no matter how he searched for her that day, he could not find her to thank her. The wary stares of the villagers served as enough of a warning, and he finally forced himself to leave, begging that they pass on his thanks to her.

He had only a fractured memory of her, of the moment between sleep and wake when she said her goodbye. He could only grasp the brush of lips across his forehead, the gentle touch on his cheek, and a familiar voice that said words he could not remember.

As he rode away, Ursa watched with tears streaming from her eyes.

"My son," she whispered, half wishing that the wind would carry it to his ears, "My dear Zuko, be strong. I love you."

_My son, I have nothing I can give_

_But this chance that you may live—_

_I pray we'll meet again—_


	7. Prompt Four: Killer

Disclaimer: If I owned Avatar, I would definitely have not thought to leave such a masterful lack of information right around here...

AN: This was prompted by the question on TEAF: who killed Azulon? We've been bouncing ideas on and off about it. So here's response number one. And by the way, I submit to the school of thought that Ozai was a loving husband (if a cruddy father) before Ursa disappeared.

So I present to you: Killer

* * *

"Please, Fire Lord Azulon, there has to be another way." The monarch looked more like stone than fire, and his stare seemed fitting only to a skull.

"Ozai has shown disrespect," he said coldly. "Now he must be punished for it."

"But Zuko has done nothing of the kind! He loves and admires you! Please—" The Fire Lord was unmoved. For an instant, Ursa wondered at how like her namesake Azula had become. It was from her that the Queen had discovered Azulon's dark intentions, revealed with something short of gloating prie as the child was marched away from her brother's room. From Zuko, now doomed to die. "Please reconsider."

"There will be no further discussion!" Azulon bellowed. Ursa recoiled from the suddenly swollen flames, pressing against a marble pillar for support. Something hard and cold pressed against her side. It was Zuko's knife; he had forgotten it while he had been getting dressed, she had pocketed it for him. The thought of her sweet baby boy dying made her blood freeze, even before the unbearable heat of Azulon's anger.

"You can't just—"

"LEAVE ME AT ONCE!" he roared. "Or your daughter will share his fate."

Tears were flowing from Ursa's eyes, urged down her cheeks by despair. She was shaking as she approached the old man's throne.

"You can do what you want," she said. "You can kill me if you want. But don't..." she choked. "Don't hurt my children."

"Your son dies at dawn," said the old man who was more corpse than man. "And your daughter beside him."

With all the grace of a queen and all the desperation of a mother, Ursa drew the knife. She had intended some ultimatum or threat, but something changed, and the knife was sheathed in his heart.

She fell back in horror. She had just murdered a man. _She had just killed the Fire Lord in cold blood!_ Her face still stained with tears and her hands marked with blood, she raced from the room, barely recognizing her husband standing in the doorway.

"Ursa?" he said quietly. She stopped so quickly that she nearly tumbled to the ground. Ozai was looking at her, staring at her bloodied hands and robes in puzzlement. "Ursa, what happened?"

"I..."renewed tears molested her face. "He...he was going to kill Zuko...I couldn't..." No longer able to face him, she turned and fled from his sight. By morning, she had disappeared.


	8. Killer: 2: Azula

Disclaimer: Nope. Still own nada.

AN: I was severely disappointed that my last chapter, though it got sixty hits (I was slightly disappointed by that number as well) recieved no reviews. I had to check several times just to make sure that this site hadn't been shut down or something. For the most part, it made me very paranoid: _Do they not love me anymore?_ I thought. Facing facts, reviews are how I know what you guys want. What you like, don't like, or even little whims that enter your fancy, I want to be able to serve you and make your experience as great as possible. I apologize for being unable to write anything gutwrenching or worthy of any major awards recently, but school has made my life pretty bleak, and so I've had to keep my writing to a minimum. I'll work on more impressive works once time and opporotunity present themselves, and be able to put all of your requests and criticism to the excellent use they deserve. Until then, I beg of you, leave a review!

* * *

Azula was no soulless wretch, no matter what her brother accused her of. And for all her spite for his advantage (and his stupid luck for being stupidly older than her), he was still her brother, and that counted for something. That, more than the rest, persuaded her.

She hadn't had too many problems convincing herself, of course. Grandfather was already really old and senile and should have been on his last legs anyway. He wasn't a very good leader anymore, either, and his staying on the throne was just going to cause problems. And if he died, then father would have a better chance of being the next Fire Lord (he would be better for the job than uncle Iroh, any day). And if he became Fire Lord, it would only be a matter of time before she and Zuko took the throne. There was a good chance of Zuko quitting and letting her take the job, she thought. She was a better Firebender and she knew loads more about history and war, so she'd be a better ruler, ad he'd realize and give her his crown. And if he didn't, she could just tell him what to do in secret, and he'd do it for her (she was good at bossing people around).

But though all that made the act very tempting, the one thing that convinced her to kill her grandfather was the fact that he wanted Zuko dead. It would be horrible: he wouldn't be there to tease or play with or share his Fire Flakes with her, and Mai would be sad (and no fun at all anymore), and she might start to miss him. Maybe. And that just wouldn't do.

With that in mind, Azula wandered to the Fire Lord's suite. One of his servants opened the door with bleary eyed confusion.

"I wanted to show Grandfather a new trick," she said, looking cute and innocent.

"Can't you do that tomorrow?" the servant asked, almost whining the words.

"But I've been working really hard on it and practicing it just for him, and it'll look so much better when all the lights are out!" She had been systematically raising her voice with every syllable until her grandfather stirred from sleep in the next room.

"What is it?" he demanded through the wall. The servant paled and timidly opened the door between the chambers.

"Ah...forgive me, my lord," he stammered. "But Princess Azula is here, and she insists on presenting something to you...or something...I tried to have her wait until morning, but—"

"Bring her in, then," the old man grumbled. "And get it over with."

"Thank you, grandfather," Azula chirped, dodging past the servant.

"Quickly, girl," he grated. "I want to get back to sleep."

"It will only take a minute," she promised him, and after a steadying breath, descended into performance.

Kick after flaming kick, leap after breathtaking leap, she repeated the more complex movements of her training. But one technique she borrowed from her brother: in place of a final step, she sidestepped and fell, launching a lethal bolt into the Fire Lord's chest. Her innocent 'oops' became a blood chilling scream as she watched the ex-ruler's bed be swallowed in flame. The servant raced into the chamber to see a sobbing Azula.

"I'm sorry!" she wailed. "I tripped and...and..."

In the end, Azula's act was only condemned as a child's grievous mistake. Her grief would serve as her only punishment. But she had gained something important: knowledge.

Because now she knew how to get what she wanted. Now she knew that she didn't have to play by the same rules as the adults anymore. Things would finally be fair. And she wouldn't have to boss Fire Lord Zuko around in secret.

For the first time, Azula knew exactly how she would become the Lady Fire Lord.


	9. Prompt Five: Midnight

Disclaimer: …What could possibly make you think that I own Avatar? Would I have under any circumstance incorporated that kiss? …Okay, so I might have. But I don't own it anyway.

AN: I began writing this at about 3:30 in the morning, on a night of dreadful insomnia preceding a kind-of-important history test. Yeah. Thus the horrific title. And I'm currently dressed as a pirate. The lack of detail is intentional—certain things I had planned out, and then I realized how ridiculous they really were to try and explain. So I beg of you, dear readers, use your imagination to fill in any gaps you may find, because there are plenty. Motive, result, etc—that's what one-shots are all about, ne? And keep in mind that I wrote this to have at least two interpretations, so tell me what you think.

AN2: This little oneshot is dedicated to **Wolfhawk** and **Khi**, both of whom I have criminally neglected for far too long. Please forgive my absence.

Your humble servant,  
Masako Moonshade

* * *

**Past Midnight**

The plan was supposed to be simple—because simple meant hard to mess up, which was kind of important for big stuff like this. It also usually implied that it would be hard to forget, but that didn't help Katara any as the hand clapped over her mouth.

"Don't move," that too-familiar voice hissed in her ear. She demonstrated just how brilliantly obedient she was by biting his hand. The voice cried out, he released her—

She heard footsteps rushing toward the room. Heavy, armored footsteps.

She reached for her water skin, all hopes of secrecy ruined, when that detested hand shot out again, seized her around the waist and threw her down. Hard.

"Prince Zuko!" The room was suddenly flooded with light as two guards burst through the door. But Katara saw none of this—nothing but a haze of red.

"Wh-what is it?" yawned the young man who lay sprawled across the floor. He was hopelessly tangled in his bedsheets, though parts of the crimson silk still clung defiantly to his bed.

"We… um…" The taller guard looked slightly uncomfortable. "Heard something, your highness."

The prince looked blearily at the bed, then at the floor on which he was sitting, then back up at the men. "I fell out of bed," he said, barely coherent in his sleep-addled state. "Too bad, though… I had a really good dream…" He yawned again.

"Oh," the guard bowed low. "Pardon the intrusion, your highness. We'll let you get back to sleep."

"G'nigh…" the prince mumbled, dragging himself to his feet despite the blankets that bound him. The door shut, and again his bedchamber fell into darkness. Immediately he stood upright, all illusions of sleep cast aside as he stepped out of the mess. He seized one edge of the blanket and cast it aside. The Water Tribe girl was wedged between his bed and the floor, no longer concealed by the stretch of fabric. She tried to pry herself out of the tiny space. Her water skin had slid halfway under the bed and out of reach—otherwise she would have frozen him and his guards solid by now.

"What was that all about?" she demanded, her voice as hushed as aggression would allow.

"Quiet," he hissed. "Or they'll come back!" He got uncomfortably close again, and she recoiled away. When he spoke, his voice was all but inaudible: "Most of the people here think the Avatar is dead," he said.

Katara prayed that the darkness hid her surprise; it was all she could do not to gasp. "What are you talking about?" she hissed. "Your sister killed him, remember?"

"I know he's alive," he whispered. "And Azula's already guessed, so don't depend on a surprise attack."

"You can't stop us." Her back hit something solid—it was the bedroom wall. Still somehow Zuko remained disturbingly close.

"My uncle is being kept in the dungeon," he continued. "It's the center cell against the north wall. Usually there's around three guards in that building, but there will probably be more, so be ready for them. He knows more about this palace and its defenses than I do; he can help you if you get him out." It didn't make sense. None of it made any sense. Why was… what…? "And you remember what Azula is capable of. She's got more tricks up her sleeve, so don't let your guard down. I'll try to distract Mai, but don't count on her not being there, and watch out for Ty Lee."

"Why are you telling me this?" Katara asked. Zuko stood up quickly, but his stance had changed. Once again he looked sleepy and sluggish, and he trudged past his window, blinking out into the gloom. Satisfied, he subtly beckoned to her. She darted back towards his bed, grabbing her water skin before she tentatively crept to his side.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked again. If not for the darkness, she might have seen his sad, grim smile. She might have understood just a fraction of what his act meant to his family, to his country, to himself. She might have guessed that he still wondered whom he had betrayed with this act. She might have weighed this single moment more heavily when the final consequences were dealt.

"Because," he said, so soft that it was barely a murmur in the dark air. "I finally understand what it means to have Honor."

And he released her like a bird into the night, to pass his warnings to her friends. Once she was out of sight he returned to sit on his bed, but he did not sleep. The coming dawn would shape History forever; Zuko wanted to be there to see it.


	10. Midnight: 2: Noon

Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own it. And I didn't write the Bible, either, so... nope. None of it's mine except for the scenario itself.

Super Long AN: Let it be forever known that I conceived the idea for this within a half hour of writing the previous scenario, which was during a long spell of successive nights of insomnia, before two major tests (both of which I did surprisingly well on, thank you very much) and shortly after The Awakening first aired. It came to me as I was looking through my scriptures for a verse or two that would make a good epithet for the previous scenario (Past Midnight)… and the one I'd initially thought of turned out to be a poor fit. Subsequently I stumbled onto Job 3:4-9… and I must say it blew me away how much it applied. The next day (technically, as I did not actually sleep) during school I began writing this scenario. And I must say that it did make me exceedingly happy.

(Ironically enough, a part of this was quoted by Davy Jones in PotC, when he summons the Kraken. Small world, huh?)

Seriously, kids, read your scriptures, whatever they may be. They rock out loud.

By the way, I have reached a bit of a sore point with Zuko. I'm still his fan, I accept him for who he is, but he definitely needs to be beaten within an inch of his life with a rubber hose. I'll let a lot of things slide, but YOU DO NOT MAKE IROH CRY AND GET AWAY WITH IT! Iroh was, after all, the first and founding member of the Zuko Fan Mob.

Okay, enough backstory, explanations and apologies. On with the story.

* * *

_Let that day be darkness; let not God regard it from above, neither let the light shine upon it. Let darkness and the shadow of death stain it; let a cloud dwell upon it; let the blackness of the day terrify it. As for that night, let darkness seize upon it; let it not be joined unto the days of the year, let it not come into the number of the months. Lo, let that night be solitary, let no joyful voice come therein. Let them curse it that curse the day, who are ready to raise up their mourning. Let the stars of the twilight thereof be dark; let it look for light, but have none; neither let it see the dawning of the day._

* * *

He should have known that he would be caught. He had guessed, after all—that was why he'd apologized to his uncle in advance, set his affairs in order, written a quick farewell to the woman he might have loved—but he should have _known_. Because that's just what happens when you betray our people. He knew it, he'd expected it. He'd done it anyway.

_Smart, __Zuko_. But then, he'd never been praised for being particularly brilliant.

_This_ was, though in a far more grim, bloodthirsty way. Azula never did spare any expense, especially not when eliminating a threat. The parade was spectacular, complete with brazen banners declaring his treason, criers announcing the same fact to anyone who couldn't read. All sorts of things were hurled at him from the surrounding crowds, and he could only hope that the wetness he felt was nothing but spittle. Whatever it was clung unpleasantly in his crudely shorn hair and dripped into his eyes; the chains that bound him had long since chafed his skin raw.

The morning's march had almost ended, and noon approached. The procession slowed to a crawl as they approached a raised tier—the place of his execution. Upon it crouched the steel cage, an abomination of bars and spines, the floor beneath it already covered with wood and tar.

His father stepped forward to announce his crimes, as though every one of those million people wasn't intimately aware already. Zuko ignored his scornful eulogy and allowed himself to be shoved roughly into the little cage, still bound and chained to a ridiculous degree. Escape was impossible. Death was certain. At least a million people now mocked and jeered at him. And yet, absurdly enough, he felt neither frightened nor ashamed. He gazed out into that crowd with imperial dignity, undoubting, unflinching. Now he sought out the faces that he recognized: there was Azula, grinning like a snake; and Mai, who looked away, her posture screaming a distress that her stoic face couldn't show. And there was Iroh. Now Zuko felt pain, a stab of regret. The old man was almost cocooned in heavy iron chains, surrounded by a private faction of guards whose spears were trained for his throat. He would have no choice but to watch his nephew's death.

More than the procession, more than the pyre, more than all the shame and agony they had tried to force upon the now ruined prince, this was cruel. He steadied himself again—he had to prove to Uncle that it would be all right. That he wasn't afraid. He met Iroh's eyes with all the courage he possessed and raised his face to the heavens.

Maybe nobody else saw—maybe they were all too busy laughing or averting their eyes. Maybe he was the only one who had thought to seek out Agnii in his final moments. Or maybe those who had seen chose to keep their silence as the pale sphere rose in the sky. It wasn't until his sentence was declared and celebrated that the heavens began to darken—and even then, the thought was brushed away as_ a passing cloud, a flock of birds—_and then the Moon had already begun to obscure the Sun.

"Do it now!" Azula shrieked, lunging forward to ignite his pyre.

Zuko didn't look down, didn't even spare her a glance. His eyes were squeezed shut against the brilliance of the eclipse, and he felt the warmth leave his face as Agnii turned away from an unjust murder.

Around and below him, people screamed in panic and outrage. Other shouts joined them—battle cries, the splash of living water and cracking ice, the howl of wind, the groan and crunch of shifting earth. The sounds were lost, and he could only feel the bars of his cage crumble around him, the sudden lightness as his chains fell away.

In chaos the city fell. In a single hour the morbid glee of his execution had broken, shifted, and was finally transfigured. Now he stood, proud and free, awaiting only that last request—

"Come on, Zuko," the young Avatar called out, offering him the swords he had once been so fond of. He looked up, to where Agnii still shunned his errant children.

The twin hilts were firm in his hands before he was even aware of taking them, still drunken from the sweet taste of his own expired life.

"Are you coming?" another warrior beckoned as he struggled to fend off the now panicking throng.

Zuko didn't utter a word in reply—he only leaped from his ruined pyre, blades readied, and plunged into the throes of his nation's rebirth.


	11. Prompt Six: Ocean

Kya's Legend

AN: _Host_ is what I assume is the group name for spiritual beings (host of angels, etc). When I use the word, it is not in a formal or parasitic context. Just so you know.

AN2: This is called Kya's Legend because I wrote this for her, to go as a prelude to her little future-tense ficlet. This is, in essence, the setup of one of the minor circumstances of her design. (And a little fun fact for you, known perhaps by those who saw the pre-first-season pilot, Katara's name was initially supposed to be Kya _pronounced, as __Kya's__ is, KAI-YAH_ but was later changed, probably to sound more Inuit.) So this is dedicated to her, for she is my muse.

* * *

In future generations, elders would tell the tale of the Brave Ones, who shattered the foundations of the rebellious Fire Nation and sealed the growing rift between Spirits and Mortals. Favorite among these heroes was the Warrior Sokka, son of Hakoda, who fought alongside Avatar Aang and assured his ultimate victory in his darkest hour. Children would invent games of strategy and wit, imitating the ancient hero with devoted awe, and playwrights would craft their epic masterpieces around that single hour of triumph and tragedy.

Sokka, however, really couldn't care less about what future generations thought of him, or of anything else. From the cries and shouts around him, he gathered that his side was slowly losing the battle. But that should be impossible; Aang had already summoned a small host from the Spirit World and the North Pole to fight alongside them. Could even the Spirits have been driven back? Had Azula been so prepared? His mind was racing, folding in on itself as he darted fruitlessly back to the dreaded chamber. The marbled floor was littered with rubble and shards of ice and smoldering furniture and dozens of bodies—one of which was still alive. Barely.

"Katara." He forced himself to speak softly, despite his desperation, as he knelt by her side. "I can't find them. The only Waterbenders that came are… they're already dead, Katara." His voice cracked painfully, but he forced himself to regain control. "Just… just hold on for a little while longer, let me get Aang—"

She gripped his hand with what remained of her failing strength. "No," she rasped, her voice barely audible. "Let him… finish this…" She had been burned and stabbed almost beyond recognition, a cruel retribution for her attacks as her ability to Waterbend failed. But it _shouldn't_ have happened that way—it was the sun that had been eclipsed, not the moon.

The moon. Yue.

_Of course!_

"I know who can help you!" he cried, half giddy in his desperate conclusion. He scooped his sister up into his arms, not daring to look down at himself to see if that sudden wetness on his shirt was merely water or blood.

"Hold on," he told her as he ran, "Hold on." It became his mantra as he stumbled through the halls, ducking behind walls like a coward at the sound of footsteps. His father and his people were fighting out there, as _he_ should be… but he would not abandon Katara. He darted through the labyrinthine halls until finally he found an ornate window that opened into a wide courtyard. He didn't even spare it a passing glance before he kicked his way through it and landed with a splash under the open sky.

"Yue!" he screamed to the heavens, where the moon shielded their battle from the sun. "Yue! You have to help me! Katara's—"

"…Sorry…" He could hear her, just as he had on That Day, more than a half year before. She sounded exhausted.

"You don't understand," he cried, storming forward with a foreboding splash. "She's dying! She needs your help, just—" Finally he looked around.

Even before the Moon attempted to explain, he understood: the courtyard had been flooded almost to his waist with briny water, and slumped against the far wall was a not-quite-solid lump. He recognized that dimly glowing shape all too well—it was the Ocean Spirit. Tui. And it was sinking into the mass, damaged beyond repair. A torrent of jagged shapes was still visible beneath the water, likely the weapons used to murder this Spirit.

"…Can only...guide water…must choose… to obey... …Ocean…my other half…is gone… I'm... weak… can't alone… I'm so sorry…"

Tui was dead or dying, and so all of the Waterbenders had been struck powerless. Yue was doing all she could to hold off the Sun. And Katara, his baby sister, lay unconscious in his arms. She was moments from death, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Or maybe there was.

Sokka had long since been blessed with a peculiar clarity of thought. And even if he wasn't spiritually astute, he knew exactly what to do. Or at least, he had a guess. Perhaps Yue had instilled the thought in his mind, or else it was because he'd seen it happen before, or maybe it was just his infamous instincts finally taking charge. Regardless of the reason, he tore the rest of the paper window from its frame and laid Katara on its wide sill.

"Hold on," he whispered again, kissing her forehead. "Just another couple minutes, I promise."

What gave him the idea to physically shake a lump of water was anybody's guess.

"Come on, Your Spiritual Wetness ," he shouted at the Spirit, pounding his fists against its amorphous sides . The Spirit shuddered (though Sokka couldn't be sure if it was out of acknowledgement, or just because it didn't like the way it had been addressed). At least he had proved that it was still partially alive. "Come on, wake up already! You've got a job to do!"

The Spirit was not impressed.

"Get up already!" he cried, throwing his entire body against Tui and landing halfway through it, emerged up to his shoulders in the dying water. He glanced back to Katara—her head had turned to face him, her expression confused and agonized and—

There was no other option. No turning back.

"I've got a deal for you," he said quietly, so his sister wouldn't hear, though his eyes stayed glued to her ruined form. "You're dying, I'm alive. So we'll trade, just like Yue did. Remember that?" The Spirit swelled and sank deeper into the water. He dearly hoped that was a sign of aknowledgement. "Just one condition, okay? You've got to help Katara. Heal her, help get her out of here. And then do what you can for the others. Do we have a deal?" No reply came. Hesitation. Annoyance. Uppityness. The Spirit was just refusing to answer him right away. That had to be it. Because he couldn't bear the alternative. "Do we?"

The Spirit gave a terrible shudder, and collapsed around him, as though it had drawn its final breath.

Barely a hundred strides away, Katara drew hers. Her eyes rolled in her head, her head slumped woodenly against the sill on which she was draped; her entire body trembled and went ominously still.

"NO!" Sokka roared, wading back toward his sister. The distance between himself and that cursed window seemed to stretch on forever, the only distance in a rapidly crumbling world. It couldn't have failed. There was no way. She couldn't be dead. She couldn't really be... "No, don't do this! You have to—You—Please don't let this—_KATARA_"

He was barely an arm's length from her still side when his foot caught on some cursed shard of debris and he plunged beneath the water.

The first thing he felt was cold. Awful, piercing, all-encompassing cold, unlike anything he had ever faced in his arctic home, that stole the breath from his lips and pulled him to the edge of awareness. He was hazy and distant and not quite alive but not nearly dead yet and... Then came a wrenching pain, too sharp after the frozen numbness. He choked on the sensation, writhed beneath the water, stretching and howling as though every fiber of his being was being torn asunder.

Because it was.

He was consumed, divided, reformed, and then—

He had cried out under the water, gasped and screamed and moaned, and meanwhile torrents of cold fluid had flooded his lungs… and he had yet to drown. It was only now that he made the observation, as he lay motionless on the bottom of the false pool. And the horrible cold was… tolerable, at least. And he was distracted. Too distracted to feel the pain, which even now was beginning to subside. His attention was divided as it had never been before, and so little of it remained on himself. There was just so… much… he could feel undersea currents a thousand miles away… tiny ships chasing even smaller fish across the cloudy surface…winds lapping against the edge of his consciousness… massive sheets of ice gliding along the edges… and not too far away, something hot and salty was seeping into the pool that had once been a courtyard. That caught his attention and he promptly decided to do something about it. His shape wasn't quite solid—not the way he had remembered it—but he found he could move.

Yes, he could move. It wasn't even difficult—just rise up, and out, and he was standing on the surface as though it was solid rock. Only it wasn't, because he could feel every ripple and rivulet that danced beneath him, as though he was merely wiggling his toes in sand and snow.

And there was Katara. The windowsill had been stained red beneath her, and now tiny tendrils of red seeped into the waters at his feet. He knelt beside her and laid his hand gently on his sister's face; she didn't move. The previous surge of power sank like bile in his throat.

"Yue," he said again, too weary to shout. "Please tell me there's something you can do."

_I can only try._ It was less of a word than a feeling; exhaustion bled into him through her voice, but he turned it away and offered her his own vigor. He could feel Yue savoring that renewed energy. At any other time, in any other circumstance, he would have puffed himself up and tried to look as macho as possible as he waited for a word of admiration or praise. Now he only felt anxious. _This __isn't__ something that I can do alone_, she told him.

"Then guide me," he replied softly, relinquishing all control to the Moon.

And he felt it—the steady push and pull, the regular sway of a native gravity, the piece of himself that was not quite broken away, that even now coursed through his little sister's cooling veins. His consciousness focused on that path as it twisted, contorted, shifted, and then he could feel the jolt as it reanimated her heart, as it closed the fissures that had been carved into her body, as it smoothed the grizzly burns that had once marred her skin. He could feel every miniscule drop as it worked within her, mending her as it went. He could even feel the blood that she coughed up as she finally returned to life.

It was definitely the crowning point of his new existence.

"_Sokka__"_ Okay, so _that_ was the crowning point. He didn't even know humans could make that kind of sound.

"Guess what?" he mused, for the first time aware of the odd way his voice seemed to echo through the air. "You're alive again."

"But… but Sokka… you…"

"Yeah, yeah, you can thank me later," he said loftily. Something else was ebbing at his attention. Savage arcs of ice, twirling bodies, so many of them sweating and bleeding. He could feel every drop. He found himself staring out at the walls that hid the combat from his eyes.

"What hap—" She squeezed her eyes shut. She knew. She had been there, too. She remembered. "What's happening now?" she asked instead, trying to hide the sorrow in her voice.

"Aang could use some backup," he observed. "All of them could, come to think of it." He turned back to her, placing an almost insubstantial hand on her shoulder. "Will you be okay here?"

She raised herself unsteadily. "I'll be okay," she said, sliding onto the floor on the other side of the wall. "But I'm not staying here. I came to fight, so don't try to stop—"

"I wasn't planning on it," he said with a grin. "But don't think you can get rid of me either, Katara. I'll always be looking out for you." He glided through the shredded window to stand beside her, and together they made their way into the heart of battle.

Everyone knows the rest of the story—how the rekindled Ocean Spirit (now called Sokka) turned the tide of the war, how the Avatar finally emerged victorious. Some travelers will swear on their own graves that they saw the White Princess and her Dark Prince pause in their eternal dance and embrace, forever binding the union between the Ocean and Moon.

But too early forgotten was the greatest, truest tale: of the man who was willing to lay down his life for his sister.


	12. Prompt Seven: Shipping

Disclaimer: There once was a girl called Moonshade

Who dreamed someday she'd have it made

Avatar she owned not

(Though she wrote her own plot)

And for fanfics would she never be paid.

AN: Yes, behold my limericks and creative word order of doom. I'm sure Yoda would be proud. Anyway,_** I encourage you to read this fic to the end before you make any judgments. **_I hope I made that clear enough. Just for reference, I'd like to point out my personal belief that it is almost criminal to disregard preexisting canon relationships. Doing so is nothing short of deliberate OOCness, which I actually attempt to avoid (believe it or not). You can, however, acknowledge them, end them on your own terms, and then discard them at your convenience. This happens to be one of my favorite hobbies. But pretending they don't exist is just that: pretending. 

AN2: Wow... seeing _the Beach_ gave me a whole new perspective on things, so I'm suddenly not sure if this view of things is more or less relevent than it was when I actually wrote it. Which confuses me greatly. I'm opening up a forum to discuss the episode, so join me there, ne? And yes, this was written at the same time as the last Scenario, meaning that it's about a week older than our latest episode.

_…._

Truth and Delay

….

Zuko liked Mai. That much, at least, was true.

She was patient—with those she appreciated, anyway—and remissive, and she recognized the Darkness within him more clearly than anyone else he had ever met. She possessed the same types of shadows, the same kind of not-quite-malice, the same cold thrill that pulsed through his own veins during every battle.

He liked her. He understood her.

And she understood him, too. And she voiced that insight in her own slightly twisted way.

"I don't hate you," she would say. Because she knew it was too much to ask for him to truly love her—not yet, anyway. And he didn't hate her either, and that was all either of them needed at the moment.

"You're beautiful," he told her, because she was. Few women were quite as graceful; not even Azula had mastered that serpentine fluidity that Mai embodied with every movement. Her eyes were as hard and relentless as steel, with considerably more sting behind them. And when he kissed her, she tasted a little of bitter tea, and a little of the sour cherries she indulged in when Ty Lee insisted on a treat—it was an uncanny flavor, but one that he had grown to appreciate.

He did like her.

But he could never quite shake that other image from the back of his mind. No matter how hard he tried to think of Mai, the harsh lines of her face would soften, darken, and her piercing eyes would become gentle and warm. He could always remember the scent of salt sweat and moist earth and free air, and sometimes he caught himself wondering how it would feel to kiss her. The woman in his mind bore a different kind of grace, another brand of patience. It was she who would unflinchingly offer her hand to her wounded enemy.

Mai would never be so irrational, so impractical, so naïve. So merciful.

Nor could she ever truly empathize the suffering he had endured. Darkness was not anguish. And she, whose family was alive and safe and unmissed, could never imitate those tormented sobs as the other girl confessed the loss of her own mother. Mai, who had never cared enough of politics to blame him for any crime, could not truly forgive him the way she had.

And so he kissed her harder, he told her a thousand "I don't hate you"s and soldered himself to her side, and all the while pushed every fiber of his being to forget the girl he could have loved. The enemy. The angel. The peasant. The warrior.

Someday he would forget her, he told himself. Someday those deviant thoughts would subside, the dreams would fade, and he would be free of her forever. And when that day came, the thought of such freedom would make him happy, just as his return home would –someday—make him happy.

But until that day came, Zuko would have to be content just liking Mai.


	13. Prompt Eight: Looking Back

Disclaimer: No, I own nothing. Nor have I seen the current episode yet, though I don't think that should have much relevance on this particular piece. All rights are property of Nick, Mike and Bryan, and whoever else owns stuff. Not me.

* * *

"You shouldn't be so hard on yourself," they told him after the war had ended.

"_He_ was the traitor; not you."

Still he agonized over those last horrible minutes. They gnawed at his attention while he tried to tend to affairs of state, they replayed behind his eyelids every time he closed his eyes. He revisited that grizzly battlefield every night in his sleep, only to watch it end the same way each morning, when he was forced to kill the one person he loved more than any other living creature.

"There was nothing else you could have done," the sympathetic ones told him. "He was crazy."

"But he was noble once," others would add hurriedly, prompted by his anguish. "It's just…"

Yet they could fabricate no excuse, no justification that would put his mind to rest. Three years the two of them had spent together, faced fire and ice, betrayal and death itself. Of course they had quarreled, and there had been a generous amount of disappointments and annoyances, but that didn't mean… he had no right to…

The agony continued, and he buried it deep within himself. Time passed, and he became the new King of the Fire Nation. He was revered; each of his scars—for he had many by then—was honored and admired by his now loving subjects. But still he wandered the halls alone and grieved as the grand palace stirred up memories of a time long past.

"I'm sorry," the woman called Katara said at last. "But he's been dead for years now. I know it hurts, but you have to go on with your life. You can't keep doing this to yourself."

He wished dearly that he could obey her.

It wasn't the kind of thing the Avatar and his friends could truly understand—and he would never wish it on anyone. When the world had collapsed on itself, it had been the two of them who faced it together. When all that was home and family seemed to crumble around him, it was _he_ who came to his aid and taught him how to live again. How many times had he been saved from despair by that one familiar face? How often had he been embraced in his moments of weakness by those hands, though royal pride had struggled against them?

"I should have thanked you," he confided to the silent grave—it was an elegant tomb, by his insistence, though all the country seemed to protest in outrage at the thought of giving such honors to one they called a traitor. "I should have protected you." His head bowed beneath the weight of a thousand regrets. "I should have done so much more for you, Zuko."

And Iroh buried his face in his hands and wept.

* * *

AN: So did you guess who I was talking about before the end? I'm sorry if Iroh's a little bit out of character, but I figure that losing Zuko in such a violent way would do that to him. This particular scenario arose from a little question that's been fermenting in my skull: why the heck is Iroh working out in his cell? Several possibilities came to mind, and one of the first that entered my twisted mind was that Iroh planned to break out of his prison and fight back—and to put Zuko down if he proved unrepentant. Perhaps one of the more gruesome options…

As it is, I made references to scenes we never actually saw during the series. My thoughts are that when Iroh returned from Ba Sing Sei in mourning, Zuko (who we already know was the only remaining member of their family who was sympathetic to his loss) comforted him and gave him a chance to be a father again. In my mind, Iroh's gratitude for that was part of the reason he first followed Zuko into exile.

And please forgive me for breaking the mood by this post-fic author's note, but I couldn't possibly give it away before the end.


	14. Prompt Nine: Contrite

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I'm not making any money off this… yeah, that should cover it.

Author's Note: Since I don't have cable, I feel entirely justified in watching the advanced episodes from the UK. And, by the way, they made me and Kya both seizure. They were that incredible. So let it be known that this was inspired by The Day of the Black Sun. Not that this little fact means anything, since this entire packet of one-shots is based on unfulfilled scenarios. The fact that I am occasionally right _almost_ _word for word_ means little (Spoiler "He had guessed, after all—that was why he'd… set his affairs in order, written a quick farewell to the woman he might have loved…"). But be ye warned: minor spoilers. By the way, I feel like I'm on a roll with the scripture verses. ((Part of it is because they look and sound a lot nicer out of context than song lyrics do, regardless of how pretty the song was; the other part is that I actually know something about Christian scripture.))

* * *

He arrived with the first twinge of dawn, like the lingering shadow of a nightmare. That shadow warped and melted the instant he touched the earth, pooling at his feet as though he walked in a puddle of blood. Slowly he crouched down, and each of the children held their breath, waiting for this snake to strike from within his coils.

The Duke cried out in alarm, jumping back from the scraping hiss of metal against stone, but Aang stood his ground. He put his foot down defiantly, trapping the swords underneath his shoe as they skidded across the mosaics of the temple floor. He spared the weapons only the meanest glance, his eyes never entirely leaving the shadow-clad figure.

The half-nightmare crept again to his feet, staring at the battle-ready crowd that had gathered before him with an indiscernible expression. He straightened his back, leveled his head, held his arms innocently in front of him, and stepped forward. He waited for just a moment, while every muscle in every young body tensed for a fight. And then he took another step, as deliberate as it was painstakingly careful. And then another. Still his footsteps fell like thunderclaps in the ruins of the old temple.

"Somehow," he began; his voice sounded rough, as though he hadn't used it in far too long. "I don't think you'll be satisfied with just an apology." Another step. "Will it help to admit that I was wrong?"

"Not by a long shot," Sokka said viciously.

"I'm sorry," he said, his rough voice weakening. "I—it wasn't supposed to happen this way."

"Get out of here, Zuko," Katara growled. Still he advanced, undaunted by the glimmering water that she held between her hands.

"Please." Another step. "I want to help you."

"Oh, really?" Toph sneered. "Why the sudden change of heart?"

"I was wrong," he said again, almost pleading. "What I did—what I wanted—it was all wrong. I know that now. And I want to fix this mess I helped cause…" He took another step. "But I can't do it alone. So please—let me help you."

"Does he mean it?" Katara whispered, so low that only the blind girl could hear. Toph answered coldly:

"Your sister is a good liar too, isn't she? What are you after, hothead?" He seemed to hesitate for a long time, looking each of the rebel-refugees in the eye, hardly breathing, hardly moving.

"My uncle," he said at last. "He's still in the capital city. He was arrested for standing up to them. For helping you. He's…he means everything to me, and I…I've hurt him. Everything I've said, everything I've done…" He shuddered, and the strength seemed to pass from his limbs and he sank to his knees.

"Aang," Toph whispered so only he could hear. "I think he means it."

"I will do anything—_anything_—to make things right. I swear to you by Agnii, by my life, by whatever is left of my honor, that I will do everything in my power to help you defeat Fire Lord Ozai and end this war."

He bowed his head low, his wild hair falling over his face like a shroud. From anyone else, the gesture might have looked pathetic and desperate. Yet no one dared to speak, none found the gall to jibe at the fallen prince. They could only stand, solemn and silent, over his repentance.

"Get up, Zuko," Aang said, his tone more powerful than he could have believed possible. "Clean up your balloon and get some rest." He turned on his heel, all too aware that his back was exposed to his once-enemy. He felt rather than saw more than a dozen pairs of eyes on him as he marched away. Almost too abruptly he stopped and glanced over his shoulder.

"After that," he said quietly, letting his voice carry over the mute crowd. "You are going to teach me how to Firebend." And he walked away without another word.

* * *

_Verily I say unto you, all among them who know their hearts are honest, and are broken, and their spirits contrite, and are willing to observe their covenants by sacrifice—yea, every sacrifice which I, the Lord, shall command—they are accepted of me_.

Doctrine and Covenants 97:8


	15. Prompt Ten

Disclaimer: First off, I own nothing. Second off, forgive the shortness of the post (an even 1000 words). It was generated more by the realization that I made, which will be delved into below. On the same note, please read the entirety of the Author's Note, because it is important. And feel free to respond to either as you see fit.

AN: Wow. I have had an epiphany, or else a dawning. Perhaps just an awakening. But I have grown up with Avatar. I remember when it came out, I was only fourteen or fifteen, a kid with unrealistic expectations of the world, who wrote rather stupid, clichéd fanfictions without the slightest trace of style or hope. Now I'm eighteen, going on nineteen, and by the time the final episode airs, I will be graduating from High School, enrolled in college, married, and forcing my husband to watch every episode of the show I love so dearly, the same way I forced him to read Harry Potter a few years ago when we were only dating. When that final episode airs, a chapter of my life will end forever.

Avatar has not only inspired me to write, but inspired people like you to go out and read the work of some girl you didn't even know who lived a billion miles away. And it made you care enough to comment, criticize, laugh, cry, and yell at me until I danced with joy because _look! __I'm__ getting better! __And__ they like it! _Every comment improved my style, and I can see it, looking back at the stuff I did in the old days. I've seen my mistakes, and the mistakes others have made, and learned from them, and then applied that knowledge in other things that I do. I've even managed to advise others, and helped them to grow a little bit, too.

More than that, Avatar has triggered the events that have strengthened me as a person. I've been plagiarized, flamed, confronted with opposing viewpoints. I've joined online threads, speculated and analyzed. I've been proven wrong, I've been proven right, and I've had to accept that there are people in this world who are perfectly good, sober and intelligent, though their fundamental beliefs are nothing like mine. Everything I've faced has improved me, refined me, and helped to prepare me to face my imminent future.

I've learned. I've changed. So I want to say to the creators of Avatar, to Nickelodeon, and to you, my beloved readers: Thank you. Thank you for making me grow.

Your humble servant,

Masako Moonshade

Sokka felt like he should be straining at the leash, but every mile only seemed to add to the tense foreboding that was collecting in his stomach. All this time, all the homesickness that he'd been pushing to the back of his mind, all those desperate prayers that they'd be okay while he was gone, and finally, finally he was back. He forced himself to look around, hoping for some distraction from his own anxiety. Massive icebergs loomed overhead like sentinels, guarding the Pole from attack and intrusion. He searched each almost frantically—were there any unusual formations? Any sign of a fight? Of sudden bursts of heat? Swords, helmets, spears, iron-clad ships—

Nothing. The pillars of ice were as jagged and perfect as crystal, and just as precious. Appa swam past, just as he had so long ago, and they floated away behind them while moon-white snow fell upon them like glittering war medals. Finally they swept aside altogether, revealing a familiar shape in the distance. It was tiny: a pile of toy figures of homes and tents, made of snow and bits of cloth. A half-healed scar on the ice shelf recalled the day a steel ship plowed into their lives, but the wall and lookout tower had long since been rebuilt. They stood as proud and defiant as ever, but now they seemed the defenses of a stubborn child: significant in its own way, but still small and feeble and hardly able to fend off an attack. It seemed to get no bigger as they approached. Even when Appa treaded his six legs and they leaped from his saddle, the village seemed like a toy, hardly substantial.

The figures that rushed to meet them were like the ghosts of a dream—he knew them, he felt that insane stir or recognition, but they just weren't _right_. That one, the little boy—had he always been so big? Surely he wasn't—it couldn't have been so long since he had barely spoken a coherent word, and dug in the snow with the club he now held like a weapon. Had the girls always been so plain, had they always looked at him with that skittering shyness? And Gran-Gran… oh, Gran-Gran. No. She had never been quite so small, so bent, so _tired_. Her hair had never been that pale or thin, and the creases in her wizened face had never been so deep, or so many. Still she grinned at him with that same glint in her eye, even brighter than he remembered. She hugged him fiercely, and then Katara, and then Aang.

"I am so proud of you all," she said, her gravelly voice commanding, her strength belying years of worry and care. And words were exchanged—news of the tribe, and feverish questions from all sides about their adventures, and cries of "Remember me? Remember me?".

"But I don't understand something," Katara managed to ask amid the turmoil. "What happened to Pakku? I thought he was coming here."

"He did," the old woman said, her wrinkled face caught between flattery, annoyance and mirth. "I sent him to the old capital. The Spirits know they need the most help. They'll come to the rest of us when that's taken care of." And there was an odd remorse in her shrug that he finally understood. Then her mouth crinkled into a smile, and she continued. "They told us about what you had done for the Northern Tribe. I thought then that I couldn't be more proud." She looked at each of them for a long moment, and her eyes sparkled like the sun on the sea. "But I suppose even I have to be wrong sometimes."

Her aged pride saw no dishonor in joyful tears, but they cut Sokka to the bone. Gran-Gran was the strongest woman he knew—that had been solid truth since before he could remember, just like how the Fire Nation was evil and how houses melted a little bit in the summer, and how the world extended only to the edge of the horizon (and a little bit past, where his father was of fighting). But now she was crying before them; now a Firebender had become one of his best friend, now he had seen the farthest corners of the world, now he had known love and loss and victory and defeat and more things than he could ever have imagined before. Suddenly the world had spun and turned and fallen on its head, only to stare up on him with the face of his old home.

He barely even noticed Gran-Gran as she hobbled close (_Hobbled? How long ha__s__ she been doing that?_) to his side and lay a gloved hand on his shoulder.

"How are you feeling, Sokka?" she asked gently, and for a shattering moment he felt like he was a child again, staring up at the woman who could scold the very sun into submission. His mind wrestled with a dozen words, but finally he settled on one.

"Confused."

"Oh? And why is that?" Her voice was soft, her tone sincere, but something told him that it was no question. She already knew the answer. Still he tried to form the words himself.

"Things are… different," he began lamely. "In ways they shouldn't be. Only… they're not. It's more like…" Slowly the thoughts clicked into place. "Like _I'm_ different, and everything else is still the same. And I feel like I've lost something, because it's not there anymore… not the way it used to be. And I…" he let himself break off, unsure of what else to say. He stared pleadingly up at his grandmother the way that a warrior never should. And she, the strongest woman in the world once again, wrapped her arms around him.

"I understand," she said. "And I know it's hard." She released him and stepped back, gazing proudly at him from arm's length. "But Sokka, that's how it feels to grow up."


	16. Prompt Eleven: Snapshot

Snapshot:

These are very short scenarios, most of them based on what we saw in The Boiling Rock. They aren't stories so much as scenes, which don't necessarily have explanation, beginning or end. Beware that there are unmarked spoilers sprinkled throughout, but since I'm not saying what's what, and at least a good half of it is just speculation and randomness, it isn't too intense. Still, read at your own risk.

All of these snapshots are unrelated, but so far I have four written. You'll get that many, at least.

* * *

I

Zuko felt an odd sort of déjà vu as he turned away from the window. There was Katara, just as she had been on his first day in the inverted temple. She was propped against his doorframe, her arms folded over her chest, her brow furrowed, her eyes closed.

"Hey." He spoke cautiously, knowing all too well what she was capable of.

"I owe you an apology," she said through numb teeth and closed eyes. "What you did for Sokka—for my dad—"

For a brief moment he was confused—bloated with satisfaction, bereaved with guilt, chilled with relief, warmed with gratitude.

"You don't owe me anything," his mouth said before his head caught up with him. It had adopted a habit of doing so. "Katara, the things I did to you—before—they were wrong. And I know that. And I'm sorry—" Still her eyes were squeezed shut, refusing to associate the acts of a friend with the face of an enemy. "And I swear, someday I'm going to find a way to make it up to you."

Her eyes opened, but they were fixed on the ground.

"Zuko, you already—"

"No," he said. "Not yet. But someday—someday I will."


	17. Snapshot II

Disclaimer: Of course I don't own anything. Ha! What madness.

AN: This is the second snapshot, commemorating the completion of my History IB Exams. It was a long, grueling process, but at last it's over. Now I've just got English and Bio to worry about. As before, this includes a spoiler for The Boiling Rock, and is otherwise unrelated to any of the previous scenarios or snapshots. Enjoy. And cookies go to anyone who can catch the vague, roundabout biblical reference.

* * *

II

Azula paces like a caged tiger, her every nerve on end. This was not how it should have been. The walls are emptier than they were before, unoccupied by living bodies or undying loyalty. Loyalty is dead now. It was murdered with a throwing knife and a well-placed jab.

She should not feel trapped, should not feel caged, should not feel like the enemy is closing in—for all the world is her enemy, its people comprised of traitors and incompetents. There is no escape—no escape—no escape—

She shoves aside maddening uncertainty and floods her mind with plans. Victory and conquest lie at her feet, as limp and submissive as a moose-lion rug. They are hers to step on. Hers by right. Hers alone.

But the walls are empty. There is no loyalty anymore. And the people she needed—no, not needed, they were convenient, not necessary—are gone now, rotting in a prison for what they've done.

And Azula paces like a tiger, caged by her own madness.


	18. Snapshot III

Disclaimer: Nope. Still nothing.

AN: This is the third snapshot, commemorating the completion of my English IB Exams, as promised. Spoilers, too? I don't know.

And just a brief note to anyone who doesn't already know, _Souzin's Comet_ will be released before the final DVD. And I will be trying not to read it. Meaning that anyone who attempt to give me spoilers will be clubbed like a baby seal. Because I know that Zutara is going to happy, and I don't need to cheat just to be proven right. And even if I'm proven wrong, I want to live in blissful ignorance for as long as possible before denial sets in.

* * *

III

The boys had cheered themselves hoarse ages ago—with the exception of Zuko, who was simply not the type to cheer, and Sokka, who realized that doing so might well cost him his life. Besides, he was content watching.

The two girls twirled around each other in an intricate dance, weaving lethal grace into every motion, losing themselves entirely in the endless exchange of blows that never landed. They took to the air, they scaled the walls—gravity had no hold on the dancers. All around them played the sound of kicks slicing empty air, fists seizing nothing at all. The shapes moved faster than the eye could follow, blurring together until it was impossible to tell who was Suki and who was Ty Lee.

It was beautiful to behold.

"Must be fun, having girls fight over you," Toph said dryly.

"It's not too bad," Sokka agreed with a content smile.

"But tell me something," she continued. "What are you going to do when one of them wins?"


	19. Snapshot IV

Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing except for my finally liberated soul.

AN: The fourth snapshot commemorates my new freedom from the IB Programme. That's right, I finished my final exam on Thursday. And it doesn't look like anyone else is going to read the last snapshot just yet (I delayed it to give a few people a chance to read before the next update).

And yes, I have to have my fix of slight gore. Warning to those with uber-sensetive stomachs: **this one's PG 13**

* * *

IV

The dark puddle splashed as she stepped in it, splattering her leg with something thick and warm. She fought the urge to vomit.

"…Hey." Zuko's face was paler than it should have been, but somehow he had managed to hold on to one of those rare smiles. "You're okay—I was getting worried."

"Yeah," she managed to say. She tried to keep her eyes on his face, on that tiny smile that fought so hard to stay in place, but she just couldn't.

The bolt would have been at least a yard long, solid steel as thick around as her arm. Now it was embedded in the wall, Zuko's chest caught somewhere between steel and stone. His legs hung limp beneath him, stained red and half folded. The wall showed a bloody testament of his struggle to free himself; it bloomed out behind him like wings—as though he was a butterfly, pinned down inside a collector's display. Her own abdomen ached; it was barely a ghost of his pain, she knew, a ghost of what it could well have been. Because _she_ had been standing there just a moment before. And now here _he_ was, red-winged and pale and smiling because she'd managed to get up. She wanted to vomit again.

"I…wanted to know…" His words came in gasps, his breath was labored. A little trickle of blood welled from the corner of his mouth. "Do…do you… forgive me…? I didn't… mean… for you… to…" She reached out to cup his unscarred cheek in her hand, wiping away the blood with her thumb.

"Goodbye, Zuko," she whispered, and the smile faded from his lips forever.


	20. Snapshot V

Disclaimer: I. Own. Nix.

AN: This is the last snapshot so far, so you don't have to endure through any more of these. Eventually I'll write more stuffs with actual substance, I promise.

* * *

V

As Katara steps into the little open plaza that has become their living room, she almost freezes. The large shape catches her off guard—reminds her of that assassin, the man with the metal arm and leg, with the horrible power of explosion—but no. It's just Jyxang, sleeping in the open until the others can fix up another room. They've needed a lot lately.

But somehow the second glance surprises her more. Because he isn't sleeping alone. Toph is curled up beside him, cuddling him as though he's a massive teddy platypus-bear. There's the remnant of dry sweat on her skin—the residue of a recent nightmare.

Katara smiles to herself. It's sweet that little Toph, for all her toughness and pride, can still feel afraid sometimes. She walks away and leaves the sleepers to their dreams, glad that the Blind Bandit is human after all.


End file.
